Borderlands: Coarse Hands
by Leenden
Summary: Mordecai has a drunken realization about his feelings for Brick, which isn't easy for him to handle. (This version of Brick and Mordecai is based off of the Brick and Mordecai from my wife's story here. /s/10709009/1/Dog-s-Paw-Paradise Check it out, it is a great read.) Brick, Mordecai, and Borderlands (c) Gearbox


Borderlands

Coarse Hands

By Jeremy McLaughlin

_A lot can be said about coarse hands._

Mordecai scrawled across the wrinkled paper. The room was silent, except for the scratching sound of the pen as he wrote in his journal. Mordecai's eyes flicked back over the line once again as he punched the period at the end of the sentence, hard enough to threaten puncturing the page. A heat welled up inside of him as he read the line yet again. Every page of his journal seemed to contain something about coarse hands.

"Jodienda diario!" Mordecai spat.

In frustration, he threw the small book against the wall. The thin sheet of metal rattled, echoing with the loud tang, loud enough to make Bloodwing squawk and flutter her impressive wings. Mordecai had been trying to record his feeling in the stupid book for days.

The journal had been Lilith's suggestion...to help him cope with his recent loss. 'Recent loss' made it sound like Brick died. He didn't die; he just left home.

Mordecai pushed away from the metal table and rose to his feet. There was a stumbling lurch in his step. The side of his boot sent an empty bottle clanking across the floor, far louder in his head than it had been in the room. All around him, the wavy pattern of the sheet metal walls sent him swimming for the edge of the table. Too far drunk, he thought, laughing inwardly at the sound of the word 'drunk' being uttered throughout his mind.

He stumbled through the room, towards the bathroom. His shoulder slammed hard into the door frame. Sheetrock dust rained down upon him, sticking in his loose dreadlocks and pointed beard hair.

Florescent light filled the room with a flick of the switch. He winced against the bright intrusion into his eyes. H leaned against the sink to keep from falling. In the mirror, a gaunt figure looked back at him. Dark circles under his eyes. Cracked and dehydrated lips were pulled tightly into a frown. The wrinkles along his forehead edged tightly around his sharp and bushy eyebrows. Trembling pupils danced inside the two toned irises- one lush and green, the other marble white and cold.

"Puto!" Mordecai spit out.

A thick line of saliva joined the word, snapping off against his sharp beard, like a rope rubbing against a rock face. His keen ears tuning into the soft pat of the spit against the bowl of the sink. In his mind, he could almost picture the small mountain climber splattering against the rock below. A coarse hand gripped his shoulder, squeezing tightly.

"A little melodramatic, doncha think, Mordy.?" Brick's face was reflected in the mirror behind him.

The strong features, tight jaw, pursed lips, and hollow eyes would make a strong man shit their drawers, but not Mordecai. It was easy for him to find the softness in the large man's features. Looking past the man's beast of a face to the beauty that lay underneath. Mordecai whirled around, a lump rising in his throat. But Brick wasn't there. He couldn't be. After what he had done to Shep Sanders, and everything that Roland said to him, Brick was gone.

Mordecai slumped against the sink. Brick had left New Haven with that fancy boy. What was his name again? Mordecai wondered. The answer was already on his lips. _Rocko_. The name hung in his mind like a spider from a thin thread. Even if it was a common house spider, you always have to ask yourself...Is it venomous? On the surface, Mordecai found that the fancy boy was no threat, but in his mind, Rocko was deadly- poisoning everything that he and Brick had become together.

Another wave of rage washed through him. Mordecai whipped around and slammed his knuckles into the mirror. It didn't shatter. The polished metal mirror only dented inward, distorting Mordecai's reflection. He choked and started coughing as it blended into a throaty laugh. The reflection staring back at him was a much better representation of who he was...without Brick. A single crimson stream dripped down from his knuckles.

"Fuck!" Mordecai laughed, looking at his split knuckle.

Mordecai shifted so he could stand in front of the toilet, lifting the lid with his shaking and bloodied hand. His other hand worked to get his belt undone. The urge to piss had grown stronger than when he stumbled into the bathroom.

Another laugh rolled through him. "Maybe you should have been pissing instead of bitching," he said aloud.

Finally, the buckle gave up it's hold on it's leather lifeline, but it was too late. Warm liquid hammered against the inside of his pants and down his legs, pooling into his boots. The laugh had instantly died as Mordecai looked down at himself helplessly. He made no attempt to stop the stream. It was already too late anyway, he mused.

When he was done pissing himself, he wiped a thick blood smear across his lips. He turned to throw the shower curtain open and snatch the water on. The sound thundered around him, echoing off the metal walls. He kicked his boots off, spilling piss all over the floor. This time he managed to get his pants open and down without further incident. He kicked them to the corner of the room to join two other piss soaked pairs of pants. The room was thick with the smell of his unwashed body and alcohol laced urine.

Mordecai used the wall to stabilize himself as he climbed into the shower, jerking the curtain closed behind him. The barely lukewarm water was cooling against his hot flesh. The Rakk ale had sufficiently saturated his flesh to give a red tint to his once tan skin. The water dribbled down his face and body, clinging to his dreads, his beard, the happy trail of hair that ran down his front, and the thick patch of pubs that nested around his limp cock.

The cooling feeling of the water made him swoon. He snatched up the prickleberry scented soap that Lilith had given him. Lathering up his thin muscular legs, his junk, and his lower belly, washing away the thick piss smell with the soft floral scent of the soap. Brick had loved the smell of the stupid soap. Mordecai had detested it and made no attempt to hide that fact from Brick, but now...whenever he washed with it, all he could do was think of was Brick. A coarse hand moved slowly up his back to rest against his shoulder blade. The bar of soap slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor, clacking as it bounced around.

"You know, Mordy, we grew prickleberries back on the farm. I remember all the times I use to lay in the middle of them, looking up at the sky..." Brick's voice echoed from behind him.

"...wondering if there was something out there in that big 'ol sky for me." There was no Brick, the voice had been his all along.

A blush pushed its way to his cheeks as he looked down at his hard cock. Just the mere thought of Brick made him feel this way, made him feel like a horny schoolgirl at the prom after-party. A tremble surged through him as the water rained down over the tender meat. It flexed furiously, pushing the darkened head out from its flesh turtle neck. His hand closed automatically around it, but the sensation felt different, somehow. It felt like something was missing.

Coarse hands, Mordecai thought. That's what he was missing. Mordecai's hands were the soft, delicate hands of a sniper. Mordecai wasn't a farmer. He didn't wash dishes. When it came to making money, he let his guns do all the heavy lifting. So his hands were delicate- thin fingers and defined fingerprints. The hands a well-off woman, if such a thing could exist on Pandora. Those weren't the hands he needed. Mordecai needed the coarse hands that knew exactly how he wanted to be touched.

"I got you, Mordy." A voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Mordecai closed his eyes and thought of Brick's coarse hands stroking him. Instinctively, he arched his back and lowered his head. The thick, wet ropes of his hair shielded his desperate face, hiding his shame from the onlookers who wanted to watch him play out his homosexual one man show. There were no onlookers, only the ones that Mordecai's guilt conjured up in the back of his mind. They didn't reside there for long. Another had entered his mind now. Someone important enough to arrest his undivided attention.

Brick pulled his scrawny body back against his lap, letting Mordecai feel how thick and ready he was. A deep grunt rose from the sniper's throat. Brick's thick fingers rolled the entire length of each of the veins along Mordecai's tightening dick. The foreskin flapping up around the thick head, sending soft ripples of pleasure through him. Mordecai shimmied his backside against the mountain of man behind him, letting his lover know that he was ready.

"This is all about you, Mordy." The voice whispered, echoing against the shower walls.

The pace of his coarse fingers increased. His soaked dreads bounced around slapping his face. Brick's hand moved fast, making Mordecai's sac to bounce furiously. He could almost feel his balls tapping against Brick larger set. Another wave of pleasure coursed through him, pushing a soft, whimpering cry from his throat.

"How long has it been since we've done this?" Mordecai moaned, his breath heaving with his words.

"Don't think about that, Mordy. Just relax and enjoy it." Brick voice was soft, but there was a deep rumble behind it.

Mordecai bit his bottom lip, fighting the urge that was pulsing through him. He wanted this moment to last as long as it could. He needed this moment to last. If he couldn't be close to Brick right now, he was going to fall apart. There was a firm kiss against his spine, and that was it. A heavy bubble of cum pushed from his tip and rolled down his knuckles, falling to the drain below.

When Mordecai opened his eyes, he half expected to see the strong, coarse hands still clutching his cock. The disappointment of seeing his own hand wrapped around his still throbbing dick washed over him. A weight struck him hard on the back, pushing him down to his knees under the cold water. A knot formed in his throat, and his shoulders quivered and jerked as a sob wrenched through his tough exterior.

"Oh god...Brick...I miss you..." His voice was alien to him, falling from his mouth like a desperate, incoherent wail.

Mordecai stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. His steps were more sober and sturdy now. It must have been a hour or more since he fell to his knees in the shower. The whole time hadn't been spent crying, but his eyes and nose felt like it had been. Despite being tired and still a little drunk, he was unusually lucid.

It was dead quiet in the room. A cool chill ran across his naked skin from the cold desert night outside. Bloodwing slept peacefully perched on one of Mordecai's bed posts. He looked at the bed but hesitated to lie down. There was something nagging at him. Something he had to do, before he could allow himself to be pulled into a night of struggled sleep and nightmares.

His eyes roved around the room, and stopped on the crumpled journal that lay atop the old, round, metal table. Rust spots had pushed up through the once white paint. Normally it was clear of any debris, but now it was covered with gun parts, empty magazines, empty shell casings, gun oil, dirty rags, or anything else Mordecai needed to get his mind off of those coarse hands.

Mordecai flopped down in the chair. The metal chair creaked from old age. The sound made Mordecai smile. Brick had always joked with him: 'Hey Mordy, I think it's time to oil your creaky hips and back.' It always tickled Brick to remind Mordecai that he was the older of the two of them. Mordecai reached out and took the journal in his hand, his frail fingers trembling once again.

There was a soft ruffling sound in the quiet room as Mordecai leafed through the pages. The first page had four words scrawled on it. 'Those Damn Coarse Hands.' Each of the first eight pages in the journal had things written on them. They all contained the words 'coarse hands' in some way, shape, or form. On the ninth page, there were a few lines scrawled, made illegible from where Mordecai got angry and scratched them out. Under the blacked out lines was a rough sketch of Brick's hands. Mordecai had looked at them so often that he could draw them from memory. He turned past the page he had written on earlier in the night, and looked at the vast emptiness of the eleventh page before him. He touched the pen to the paper and wrote.

_I wish I had coarse hands. Strong enough to pick myself up when I fall. Big enough to hold me, when I get angry and spin out of control. Firm enough to hold me back from making stupid decisions. Steady enough to pull the bottle from my lips and throw it to the ground. Unshakable enough to wipe the tears from my eyes. Dependable enough that save me from my self loathing. I wish I had coarse hands. I wish I had Brick's coarse hands. Those coarse hands that remind me that I'm still me, and that's what he loves about me._

Mordecai closed the journal and tossed it down on the table. Being away from Brick was killing him. It was decided, long before the words even seeped in. Tomorrow he would go to Thousand Cuts to see Brick. Mordecai thought that he deserved to know just how much he missed him, how much he cared about him.

With that realization, it felt as if the last of his strength had been sapped from him. Tears rolled down his cheeks, disappearing into his beard. Sleep would be impossible now that his mind was made up. Drinking was out of the question as well. There was no way he would get drunk and miss leaving at first light to see Brick.

There was only one thing left to do. Mordecai stretched out across the table, picking up the remains of the Draco that Brick had given him that day in the cave so long ago. Mordecai had promised to fix it, but it had slipped his mind. Now he set to work on putting it back together. It would be a good peace offering for his un verdadero amor.


End file.
